Local Songs and Poetry

IF you want to find out more about the local history of Kintyre or post some interesting stories then here is the place! All contributors welcome! You can also check out the Historic Kintyre and Down Memory Lane websites.

The Scottish Soldier

Postby Annie » Thu Nov 23, 2006 12:26 am

I know this one is not local, per se, but I have heard it sung many, many times by locals!!!

The Scottish Soldier
There was a soldier, a Scottish soldier
Who wandered far away and soldiered far away
There was none bolder, with good broad shoulder
He's fought in many a fray, and fought and won.
He'd seen the glory and told the story
Of battles glorious and deeds neforious
But now he's sighing, his heart is crying
To leave these green hills of Tyrol.
Because these green hills are not highland hills
Or the island hills, the're not my land's hills
And fair as these green foreign hills may be
They are not the hills of home.

And now this soldier, this Scottish soldier
Who wandered far away and soldiered far away
Sees leaves are falling and death is calling
And he will fade away, in that far land.
He called his piper, his trusty piper
And bade him sound a lay... a pibroch sad to play
Upon a hillside, a Scottish hillside
Not on these green hills of Tyrol.

And so this soldier, this Scottish soldier
Will wander far no more and soldier far no more
And on a hillside, a Scottish hillside
You'll see a piper play his soldier home.
He'd seen the glory, he'd told his story
Of battles glorious and deeds victorious
The bugles cease now, he is at peace now
Far from those green hills of Tyrol.
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Old folks at home

Postby bill » Fri Nov 24, 2006 9:00 pm

This is a song I have only ever heard sung by one of my older brothers.He learned it from a pal of his called "Johnnie Boy" ,way back in the late 50's."Johnnie Boy" stayed with his parents in Hillside Road.

It is called "The Old Folks at Home"
sung to the tune of "The Red River Valley".

Sit around and I'll tell you a story
Of a boy who was taken from home
To fight for his King and his country
And to fight for the old folks at home.

He was posted to a highland division
And sent to a far distant land
Where the flies buzz around in their thousands
And nothing there to see but sand

The battle started early one morning
Beneath the rays of the wild Libyan sun
And was there that a brave Scottish soldier
Was shot by an old Eytie gun

When his mother heard the news early one morning
She cried till she nearly broke her heart
When she read that her son,a hero
Had died by an old Eytie gun.
Last edited by bill on Wed Feb 28, 2007 10:56 pm, edited 1 time in total.
I know my Summer'll never come
I know I'll cry until my dying day has come
Let the Winter roll along
I've got nothing left but song
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Postby bill » Tue Feb 20, 2007 8:56 pm

THE AULD WITCHBURN

by Thomas Hamilton

I'm prood to say that Campbeltown's the place that gaed me birth,
To me it is the sweetest and the dearest spot on earth:
'Twas there I spent my early days and didna care an urn
Ho' the warld sat, if I was at the Auld Witchburn.

CHORUS:
For that was the place, my boys, to pass the time away,
From the dawning of the morning till the waning of the day,
Altho' now gone forever, to memory will return
The happy days we paidled doon the Auld Witchburn.


Oh, weel dae I remember when we used to play at tig,
An' chase each other up the steps an' roon the brig,
An' when we wad be nearly tug hoo we wad juke an' turn,
An' maybe fa' heid foremost in the Auld Witchburn.

CHORUS:


The bobbies used tae hunt us, and whiles they gaed us't hot,
To us it was amusement and we didna care a jot:
Altho' they shook their staves at us, their threatenings we did spurn,
We were swifter tha the scafters at the Auld Witchburn.

CHORUS:


'Twas there we used to sail wee boats, or fecht wi' richt guid will,
'Twas there we hid our books and sclates when we did plunk the schule,
'Twas there we used to get wat shod, but had nae cause tae murn,
We were happy hunting rattans doon the Auld Witchburn.

CHORUS:


But changes great have taken place in Campbeltown since syne,
The husky youthful cronies they're scattered ye maun ken:
Some have crossed the raging main, and some sleep in the urn,
Who aince were happy chappies aboot the Auld Witchburn.

CHORUS:
I know my Summer'll never come
I know I'll cry until my dying day has come
Let the Winter roll along
I've got nothing left but song
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Postby Annie » Tue Feb 20, 2007 9:18 pm

Ach, nee ye hae gowd and maed me greet!!

:cry: :cry: :cry:
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Postby bill » Wed Feb 21, 2007 3:16 pm

Sweet Island Davaar

The sun was just leaving the top of yon mountain
When appeared there in splendour a bright and evening star.
As I carelessly wandered to the foot o' yon mountain
And roon the grey rocks o' Sweet Island Davaar.

It is well I remember the Island and Dhorlin
And doon by Kilkerran, where oft I did roam,
And tae drink at the well at the foot o' Benghullion,
And roon the grey rocks o' Sweet Island Davaar.

It's goodbye to Argyllshire, the Land o' my Sires,
It's I'll think o' thee though we're many miles apart;
And tae bless the happy days that we spent in Kintyre,
And roon the grey rocks o' Sweet Island Davaar.
I know my Summer'll never come
I know I'll cry until my dying day has come
Let the Winter roll along
I've got nothing left but song
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Postby Annie » Wed Feb 21, 2007 3:22 pm

Stop it! I huv tae go tae work the day!!!!!!
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Postby bill » Wed Feb 21, 2007 3:42 pm

THE ROAD TO DRUMLEMMAN

William Mitchell.
(Tune: The Green Rushes)

Now the spring-time returns to the Laggan again,
And the lark sweetly sings o'er the green fertile plain,
So I"ll take to the road that is dearest to me,
The old road to Drumlemman that winds to the sea.

For I've made many friends there on every mile,
And the folks all greet me with a wave and a smile,
If I spend all my days here, it's happy I'll be,
On the road to Drumlemman that winds to the sea.

For we sat by the fire-side when winter winds blow,
And we talked and we sang till the night was well thro',
Then we had a good dram and a wee cup o' tea,
On the road to Drumlemman that winds to the sea.

O the bright simmer days when we tramped the hills o'er,
To spend hours at the Inneans or Craigaig' s wild shore,
When we lay in the sunshine, from life's cares set free,
On the road to Drumlemman that winds to the sea.

We'd come home in the evening when the sun dropping low
Set the Laggan's green fields and the hills all aglow,
When the soft summer twilight made shadows all flee,
On the road to Drumlemman that winds to the sea.

O the years passing swiftly bring changes I know,
And as time marches on, from this scene we must go,
But I'll never forget while the heart beats in me,
That old road to Drumlemman that winds to the sea.


This song was written in April 1948, 'in the space of a. few minutes,' to quote the poet himself. It soon became popular and was sung all over Kintyre, being accepted generally as a traditional song, few people asking who wrote it. In recent years it was recorded by the group Ossian, to a tune of their own, and later by Anne Lorne Gillies, to the Ossian tune. When she heard who wrote the song, she visited Willie to hear the original tune, and to record his singing it. Most local folk prefer it to the other.

by Agnes Stewart, daughter of William Mitchell.
I know my Summer'll never come
I know I'll cry until my dying day has come
Let the Winter roll along
I've got nothing left but song
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Postby Annie » Wed Feb 21, 2007 3:55 pm

Will have to Google Ossian!!!!!!!!!
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Postby bill » Wed Feb 21, 2007 3:56 pm

Killervan Braes" by David Ferguson

My Native Land! I lo'e thee still
For there the happy days
In youthfu' pleasure I hae spent
All on Killervan Braes.

Tis there amang the blooming heath
The whirring moorcock springs,
And a' my youthfu' loves and joys
Still to my memory clings.

There I hae seen the lassies fair
As be in any land,
There I hae met my comrades dear
And joined the roving band.

But fickle fortunes fluttering wing
For me has not been kind
Sae I maun lea'e my native land
And try a foreign clime.

Wi' maidens fair an' stalwarts gay
Aye may Southend abound.
May peace an' plenty evermair
In Conyglen be found
I know my Summer'll never come
I know I'll cry until my dying day has come
Let the Winter roll along
I've got nothing left but song
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Postby bill » Wed Feb 21, 2007 4:02 pm

"Another Sang Of Campbeltown"
Author unknown

" Weel many a bonnie sang's been sung
O' Campbeltown an here awa,
Kintyre's green knowes an' sunny howes,
Or Laggan's strath sae braid an' braw
And ilka scene that lies between
Bengullion and Glenbreckerie,
Is lovely in the summer sheen -
So then again I'll sing o' thee.

O! did the tourist only ken
They charm o' mountain shore and sea,
His holiday he'd oftener spen'
Tae breath thy air sae fresh and free,
And spiel at morn Knockscalbert's side
Where shepherd tends his fleecy care,
And hear him praise, wi' honest pride,

Ilk feature o' those whose ashes now
Repose in peace beneath the sod,
Who shed their blood in troublous times
For love of country and of God,
And weird wild episodes o' the sea
Oor fisher folk hae heard an' seen,
Wi' witching tales o' glamourie
Beguile the leisure oors at e' en.

He'd carry back to Lowland home,
And city domicile where'er,
A store of health and loric wealth
Would ser' him 'til anither year.

......................................................................

" Nostalgia"
also known as "Home"
by Lattimer McInnes

But oh! my heart is weary very weary here afar,
For the grey reach of Kilbrannan when the spindrift's flying free,
For the mist swathed peaks of Arran and the sight of green Davaar
As the screw goes throbing homeward to the place where I would be;
Oh! to ramble through the plantin, to bask in Porter's Glen,
To wade knee deep in bracken on dear old Harvey's braes,
To sit on black McRinnan's and watch the fishermen
Go seaward through the sunset or homeward through the haze.


Around me is the murmer of the soft Italian tongue,
In the highways and the byways, in seething streets and squares
From the market cries at morning to the songs at midnight sung,
Oh! they take the ear like music heard in moonlight unawares;
But my sated heart is yearning with a yearning fierce and strong
For the rasp of Scottish gutteral through the silver speach of Rome,
For the sharp twang of the Gaelic or a lilt of Lowland song,
For an hour of Dalintober and the ingle nook of home.

N.B. Maiden's Plantin' -- A plantation on Baraskomel called after a Change- House at the roadside (for stage coaches) which was kept by two old maid sisters.

Harvey's Braes -- The grassy slopes between Maiden's Plantation and Porter's Glen. James Harvey was a tenant of Baraskomil until his death in 1858.

Macringan's Point -- means Mo Ninian Point : Mo: is prefixed to the names of saints to express respect and affection
I know my Summer'll never come
I know I'll cry until my dying day has come
Let the Winter roll along
I've got nothing left but song
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Postby bill » Wed Feb 21, 2007 4:12 pm

A SONG FOR ST CLAIR ON HIS DEPARTURE
Archibald Stalker
18. 5. 06

-1-

Our hands are uplifted in greeting
Our hearts in a moment outswell;
Yet it is not in token of meeting
But the unspoken word of farewelL,
Some day we shall greet one another
With gladness again, not as thus,
For tonight it is farewell, my brother
The youngest of us.

-2-
Farewell then awhile; yea for ever
I pray that full well mayst thou fare
Tho' the sea and the seasons may sever
Us twain, yet forever my prayer
My desire, shall be ever to theeward
And night shall not once fall on me
Nor shall I now ever look seaward
Without thought of thee.

-3-
With a song at the hour of your starting
I do not our grief any wrong;
For the times of our death and departing
Are times both of sorrow and song,
Yet I pray that with joyous thanksgiving,
Tho' twain be the fleet years or ten,
We may welcome you, all of us, living,
When you come again.

-4-
You go to a great land and fairer
Than this our beloved little isle,
Will you find it much richer and rarer
I wonder than misty Argyle?
For what hill the warm scent of ours carries,
What seas are as sweet, morn and noon?
What glens are as bright as bright as Glenbarr is
In earliest June.
I know my Summer'll never come
I know I'll cry until my dying day has come
Let the Winter roll along
I've got nothing left but song
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Postby bill » Wed Feb 21, 2007 10:25 pm

In Praise of Kintyre
John MacKay

The Western Isles are bonnie,
And their mountains tower so grand
Above the trailing cloud and mist
That sweep o'er sea and land;
But my weary heart is sighing,
And my laggard footsteps tend
To the dear scenes of my boyhood,
Kintyre's sweet gem - Southend.

There are those who sing the praises
Of the charming Sound of Sleat,
The skirl of Rory's piping,
And the tread of Angus' feet;
But I'll give them all the go-by,
And my warmest love I'll send
To the land of Colum-Cille,
And the kind folk in Southend.

O! The glory of the mornings
When the sun bathes hill and lea,
And guardian of this treasure
Stands grim Dunavertee;
The land of Cowal may be fair
And thousands thither tend,
But my seeking heart is yearning
For the peace of dear Southend.

Bright purple paints its hillsides,
And rich yellow decks its plain,
And Sabbath quiet can here be found
To soothe the weary brain;
Of the bustle of the city
I can gladly spare and lend
For a romp among the heather,
And a month in sweet Southend.

O! The joy of summer mornings
When we drive off from the tee,
And our balls fly up and onwards
In thy line, Dunavertee;
And on the "Mount of Zion"
We watch the "Hazel" send
Its waves to sing an oran
On thy glistening sands, Southend.

And dim across the waters
We see green Erin's shore,
And the frowning cliffs of Sanda
Tell of days of yore
When the Vikings sought its shelter
And MacDonald and his men
Gave the land a thrilling story,
To the glory of Southend.

Now laggard are my footsteps,
And joyless is my heart,
For soon Ceann-tir, the fairest,
And its exiled sons must part;
But in Glasgow's bustling city,
And beside the winter fire,
I'll dream of bliss and sunshine
As I found them in Kintyre.
I know my Summer'll never come
I know I'll cry until my dying day has come
Let the Winter roll along
I've got nothing left but song
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Postby bill » Wed Feb 21, 2007 10:40 pm

THE ANNABELLA
G. Albert Ramsay

Faraway in Bonnie Scotland,
In the shores of Kintyre Bay,
In the quiet town of Campbeltown
The Annabella lay;
With her hatches safely fastened
To protect her precious store
Of provisions for their journey
To a far off shore.
It was seventeen and seventy
In the records written down
That the Annabella sailed away
From that ancient Scottish Town.
There were Ramsays and Montgomeries
And many many more:
Sailing on the Annabella,
As she left the Scottish shore.

As she sailed the great Atlantic,
Many weeks and months passed by
For the records of her passage
No one living can supply;
But from somewhere comes the story
That somehow she went astray,
North Carolina was intended;
She was wrecked in Malpeque Bay:
In an early autumn snow storm
Off the shores of P.E.I.
There the Noble Annabella,
As a helpless wreck did lie.
The sailors man the lifeboats,
Carrying hundreds less or more,
Leaving everything behind them;
Thus they landed safe ashore.
They were met by friendly natives,
Who saw their awful plight,
And prepared for them a shelter
On that stormy night.
They were glad they were not dead.

These early Scottish settlers
Were Proverbial men of steel;
They logged the virgin forest
Which they burned to fertile fields.
They built their humble dwellings
Where they sang around the fire
The songs of dear old Scotland,
As with loved ones in Kintyre.
Lucy Maude Montgomery of literary fame
No doubt was a descendant
Of that little band that came;
Or should I say was driven
By a Providential storm
To settle on this island
Where this writer, too was born.
'Twas a visit that prompted
The writing of this little poem
When I visited Kintyre
In September Nineteen eighty five
I stood one sunny day
On the very dock in Campbeltown
From which she sailed away.
A dear old Scottish lady
Who was rich in history lore
That day brought forth the records
Of all who were on board.

She assures us that very wharf
On which we stood that day
Was there two hundred years ago
When our forbears sailed away.
With misty eyes we turned our gaze
Towards the open sea
And stood where loved ones stood that day,
As the good ship sailed away.
In fancy there we watched her sail
Though Centuries had rolled by,
And we thanked the Lord
They found a home on the shores of P.E.I

(P.E.I. is, of course, Prince Edward Island)
I know my Summer'll never come
I know I'll cry until my dying day has come
Let the Winter roll along
I've got nothing left but song
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bill
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Postby bill » Thu Feb 22, 2007 3:37 pm

GLENBREAKERIE
William Mitchell.

The brown burn in Glenbreakerie
Sings wildly in its glee,
From mountain haunts it dashes down
Unsoiled by taint of any town
To greet the mother sea.

The white road through Glenbreakerie
Has many a witching bend,
It lingers long by burn and brae,
As if unwilling all the way
To reach its journey's end.

The great hills round Glenbreakerie
Like sentinels they stand,
E'er man was born, they reared on high
Their mighty crests against the sky,
To guard this lovely land.

But the old homes of Glenbreakerie
Lie ruined and decayed,
And those who ploughed the fields in spring,
And round the ceilidh fires did sing,
In lonely Keil are laid.

The silence of Glenbreakerie
Goes to my very heart,
And as I mount Dalsmirren Hill,
And view the glen so quiet and still,
It gars the tear-drops start.
I know my Summer'll never come
I know I'll cry until my dying day has come
Let the Winter roll along
I've got nothing left but song
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Postby bill » Thu Feb 22, 2007 3:41 pm

ISLAND DEVARR.

The sun was just leaving the top of the mountain -
When appeared with its splendour the bright evening star;
While I carelessly strayed by the clear flowing fountain -
To view the high summits of Island Devarr.

O dear to my soul are the hills of the highlands -
More dear than the treasure which comes from afar!
And sweet are the haunts of our own neighbouring islands;
But thrice dear to me art thou, Island Devarr.

Tho' rough be thy beach when the hoarse waves are breaking,
As white as the Alps, when they're covered with snow -
Tho' the sea-beaten bark, mid the rude storm is wrecking;
Still, my dear Island, thy beauties will show.

Now, farewell Argyleshire, the home of my sire;
I'll mind thee when sever'd, though ever so far,
And bless the sweet hours that I've spent in Kintyre,
Amongst thy gray rocks, beloved Island Devarr.

Campbeltown, 4th February, 1833.
I know my Summer'll never come
I know I'll cry until my dying day has come
Let the Winter roll along
I've got nothing left but song
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